


[Fanfiction] The Gavotte

by SkyAsimaru



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale being a dork, Aziraphale just wants to dance, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Dancing, Gentlemen's Club, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Light Angst, M/M, Old London, Portland place club, Some Fluff, Whumptober i guess, abused principality, aeroscope, aka cinema-graphers, and Crowley just wants to watch, but the Archangels have other ideas, emotional issues, not much humor I guess, old video cameras, set around 1900 or so, the gavotte
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:55:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27174146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkyAsimaru/pseuds/SkyAsimaru
Summary: Summary: A sweet, gentle fic with some light angst, where Crowley records Aziraphale’s performance of the Gavotte. Everyone is excited about it, until Gabriel and Sandalphon suddenly show up to ruin the moment.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 32





	[Fanfiction] The Gavotte

**Author's Note:**

> Who recorded Aziraphale's dance recital (if indeed that’s what it was in episode 4 of the TV series)? - - I suddenly wondered if it could have been Crowley, and in true "What if?" fashion, when I thought of that, I couldn’t not write this fic…  
> -For the purposes of this fic, please ignore all timelines that say Crowley must have been asleep or avoiding Aziraphale during the early 1900s because of their Holy Water argument, at least just for a moment :) -

To think, they would be immortalized on _camera_. Moving pictures! It was all very exciting. Aziraphale had trouble concentrating. His fingers fidgeted and his shoes tapped on the polished wood floor as he straightened his cravat once again.

“Are you sure I look alright?” he asked the gentleman to his left - - John, his name was. They had become friends the moment Aziraphale had walked into the door of this discreet Gentlemen’s Club in Portland Place several years ago. “I feel like I stick out.” Aziraphale gestured to his suit. He was wearing all white, while all the other gentlemen of the performance were wearing black of a similar cut.

“You look like an angel, Mr. Fell. Really, you do! And you deserve to stand out - - this is your big night, after all.” John winked at him. “Why, you and your friend Crowley, with that camera of his, are like angels sent to us from Heaven!”

Well, one of them was, officially speaking, Aziraphale muttered, but John had already hurried off to join the other gentlemen onstage and did not hear him. Aziraphale undid his cravat, twisted it around, then tucked it back in again. Then he looked at himself in a mirror and swallowed, debating whether to pull the darn thing back out. It just looked crooked, no matter how he fixed it, but it was almost showtime, now. He would have been sweating through his jacket already if he ever allowed his body to sweat.

“Are you ready, Angel?” Crowley poked his head around the curtain. He was dressed in his usual black, sunglasses perched high on his nose, and flaming, chin-length hair slicked back, tucked enticingly behind his ears. Oh, he looked very dashing, and the sight of him made Aziraphale’s heart skip a beat. Crowley added a devilish smirk that certainly didn’t help calm Aziraphale’s nerves.

When Aziraphale had told Crowley the other night over a bottle of wine that he and the gentlemen of the Portland Place Gentlemen’s Club were going to perform their hard-practiced Gavotte in a special showing to the public, he hadn’t expected his demonic adversary-turned-secret-friend to insist on bringing his new cinema-grapher - - or ‘camera,’ as Crowley preferred to call the device - - to record it. 

“This moment needs to be immortalized, angel,” Crowley had crowed back then in the bookshop, sloshing his red tipsily but never spilling a drop. "Just think of it - - the angel who learned how to dance! It’s a special occasion!” Crowley always brought his cinema-grapher to every “special occasion”, these days - - although Aziraphale couldn’t help but notice these “special occasions” almost always included him. Now, all nerves and no courage, he reached for a glass of port sitting among several others on the table backstage, hoping it would settle his nerves. It did not.

“Oh, Crowley! What if I mess up? Or forget a step? Or fall on my rear? Oh goodness! I’m so - - ” Aziraphale coughed on the port, put the glass down, then pulled at the cravat wrapped around his throat, his hands fluttering around in a panic until two strong, thin hands covered his own. Long fingers pressed down gently on his short pudgy ones with a reassuring squeeze.

“You’ll be fine, Angel.” Crowley began carefully adjusting his cravat for him. He twisted and tucked the silk gently, folding it perfectly beneath the folds of Aziraphale’s waistcoat. The angel knew the demon could have just as easily miracled the cravat to be perfect - - he could have done that himself, had he not been too flustered to think of it - - but the comforting sensation of the demon’s hands on his clothes made his cheeks heat and his breath catch in his throat. Crowley in close proximity always did that to him these days, though he would never dare speak of it.

Crowley took a step back to admire his handiwork, nodding his head up and down. “You look great, Angel. And don’t worry, you’ve been practicing this ‘Gavotte’ round the bookshop for ages, there’s no way you’ll mess up. Besides, I’m curious to see how the dance looks with the whole ensemble together. Perhaps it’ll make more sense that way.” The demon smirked again, flashing that sharp-toothed grin that made the angel’s heart beat even faster, to the point where he had to look elsewhere, or risk giving away everything. Then he found himself suddenly spun around, and Crowley was giving him a firm but gentle nudge toward the stage.

“Break a leg, Angel,” Crowley whispered, then turned away before his own heavily-beating heart could expose his own feelings. Before Aziraphale could fluster his thanks, Crowley had disappeared on the other side of the curtain, where a sizable crowd was gathering. Aziraphale watched the curtain twitch with a wistful longing, then he remembered Crowley would be manning his trusty Aeroscope for the event, and given the bulk of the device Aziraphale would have no problem spotting his friend in the crowd. He smiled, smoothed down the lapels of his waistcoat, and strode out to meet his fellows onstage.

* * *

~Meanwhile~

Gabriel and Sandalphon stood in front of the door to Aziraphale’s bookshop, which was locked, warded, and empty.

“Well. This is interesting,” Gabriel gestured to the hastily-scribbled note stuck to the door window, something ridiculously over-explanatory scrawled out in Aziraphale’s long, looping handwriting, deferring potential-customers to some performance at a club if they wanted to find him. “Well, let’s go,” he sighed, “this paperwork isn’t going to finish itself, and if we want to submit our quarterly report, we’re going to need Aziraphale’s portion of it.”

Sneering behind the Archangel, Sandalphon took one last look at the note on the door. This “performance” in question seemed to have something to do with dancing, and Sandalphon had always hated dancing. If angels _could_ hate, of course. Which of course they could not. (Theoretically.)

His lips curled down in what could almost be called a snarl as he followed Gabriel to a nearby alley. Honestly, Gabriel thought to himself, he had no idea what Aziraphale saw in these human interests of his, but if the angel wanted to support something called a ‘Gentlemen’s Club’ in their folly of ‘dancing' then so be it. It would take only a minor miracle to find the wayward Principality, no matter where he was in the world.

Once away from prying human eyes, the two angels miracled themselves away with a sound like a thunderclap.

Nothing could prepare them for what they were about to see.

* * *

Oh, it was a performance to remember! Every step was perfect, every move like poetry in motion. Excitement ran through Aziraphale’s veins as he danced and swooped. He and his fellows were in perfect sync, each kick and running dash executed superbly. He beamed as he ducked low on a pass with the man opposite him, loving every moment. The Gavotte was _fun,_ and Aziraphale felt drunk on happiness, like champagne bubbles of pure joy. And with every turn past the crowd, his eyes flashed over to where Crowley stood, tall and dashing behind his cinema-grapher, watching him with a warm and gentle smile on his face.

Crowley kept his hands on his trusty Aeroscope, the lens miracled to maintain perfect focus, while he kept his eyes on Aziraphale. The angel looked like he was having so much fun as he pranced about the stage, and Crowley just couldn’t get enough of him! There was the angel - - _his_ angel - - right there, front and center, basking in the spotlight, beaming like a flower with its face lifted toward the sun.

 _Way to go, Angel_ , Crowley thought, his chest swelling with pride. The only angel in all of Heaven who had learned how to dance, and Crowley couldn’t be more proud. It might be a quirky dance, but a dance it undeniably was, and no one could say any different. Aziraphale had never looked more beautiful, more radiant, than he did in that moment, and Crowley couldn’t be prouder in all the thousands of years of their acquaintance. _His angel had learned how to dance._

He watched Aziraphale make what looked to be one last turn around the stage, the music winding up in a way that promised to be a fun finale. Crowley’s lips turned up, too - - he just couldn’t keep them down - - and he lifted the camera tarp and leaned in, watching Aziraphale through the lens of the Aeroscope. All that prancing and kicking about, recorded on film forever, and Crowley couldn’t wait to play it for the angel, later. Perhaps in the bookshop, with a linen sheet up on the wall and a glass of wine in their hands, sitting side by side on the floor, their backs propped up against the couch. He could almost imagine the wiggle of excitement the angel would give upon seeing himself on the screen, radiating that perfect glow of warmth and contentment that Crowley could bask in for ages… 

Then he suddenly felt the presence of two more angelic beings enter the room, the undercurrent of their celestial energies ripping up along his spine like twin steel daggers, their blades cold and merciless. He turned, garbled in his shock, then immediately hid himself beneath the camera tarp, praying to Satan they had not seen him.

There in the crowd stood the Archangel Gabriel and his lackey Sandalphon. Crowley needn’t have worried - - they only had eyes for Aziraphale, of course, but Crowley could not see the direction of their gazes from underneath the tarp. He stared at the floor, swallowing hard, trying and failing to stamp down the heavy waves of panic rising up in his throat. The Archangel Gabriel, he knew, wouldn’t hesitate to smite him upon sight, and Sandalphon - - well, who knew _what_ that bastard might do. He briefly considered miracling himself away, but knew if he did, the angels would be alerted his presence immediately, and that would be bad for - -

Then horrible realization hit him like a splash of cold water in the face: Aziraphale was still on stage!

There was a sudden rush of cheering from the crowd, and Crowley pressed his eyes back to the camera, fervently wishing he could warn the angel to run away, to hide behind the curtains, but no, Aziraphale stood front and center, beaming with his hands up, intertwining his fingers with the men to his left and his right. As one, the Gentlemen’s Club members all lifted their hands and took a bow, and Aziraphale bowed along with them. Then he stepped forward, alone, looking out over the crowd, a triumphant smile on his face.

Crowley let the camera slow to a stop. He couldn’t bear to watch. Everything seemed to happen in slow motion. Aziraphale scanned the audience, looking for Crowley, but then his gaze landed on Gabriel and Sandalphon lurking among the humans. The demon’s heart sank as he watched the angel’s smile fall. Then the aperture closed, and the world under the tarp went dark.

* * *

Aziraphale’s beating heart sounded deafening to his ears, but he felt so happy. He closed his eyes as he took a bow, certain that one of those cheers must be Crowley's, perhaps even that loud, cat-calling whistle. He rose up from his bow and, beaming, took a step forward, turning his head to look around, but then he saw... 

Gabriel met his eyes with a cold, calculating stare. Then the Archangel smiled, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. Sandalphon didn’t bother to smile at all. Aziraphale’s heart froze. He immediately thought of Crowley, and wanted to make sure the demon was safe, but knew that if he turned his gaze away the other angels would follow it, and then they might discover the demon, if they had not done so already.

So, instead, Aziraphale staggered down from the stage. The crowd had started to disperse, and the gentlemen around him shouted their bravos and patted him on the back, but he did not feel their praise, and they all drifted away as soon as he approached the other angels. The minute he saw their faces he knew: they had seen him dancing.

Gabriel lifted his hand with a loud, “Ah, Aziraphale, there you are,” and under the cover of a proud friend congratulating him on his “miraculous performance,” he and Sandalphon whisked him away, right past Crowley (who was still hiding under the tarp), and over to a side room. Without even a ‘how do you do’ to the humans they passed, they shuffled the Principality inside and shut the door.

Crowley remained still, keeping his demonic power as low as possible. He didn’t want to draw any attention to himself, and he didn’t dare breathe again until the Archangels were out of sight. He couldn't make any more trouble for Aziraphale, who was in enough trouble as it was. Then he felt a miracle take place, and he stiffened. He slipped out from under the tarp, propped his camera against the wall, and snuck over to the now miracle-locked door. Oh, he prayed to Satan that the angel wouldn’t be taken back to Heaven, for they had barely escaped that fate the last time. He briefly thought about leaving, but he wouldn’t abandon the angel like this, so he stood in front of the door, and waited…

* * *

The rough jerk on Aziraphale’s arm as he was practically thrown into the room was the first outward sign that the Archangel might be angry with him. Sandalphon had sneered, leeringly, as Gabriel shut the door. Then, before Aziraphale could speak, the Archangel had snapped his fingers, locking the door with a miracle, one that would not let it open for anyone until the Archangel said so.

That was when Aziraphale knew: 

Gabriel was not angry.

Gabriel was furious.

* * *

Crowley, like any good eavesdropper, had initially pressed his ear pressed to the door, but soon found he needn’t have bothered: the Archangel and his lackey were not shy in their immediate dressing down of the poor Principality. Nor were they discreet. The moment the lock clicked they started in on him with the most awful, scathing remarks imaginable, raining shame down on the embarrassed and flabbergasted angel. Their voices grew louder the longer their verbal attack went on, to the point where human heads started to turn, and Crowley dared to perform a small miracle of his own then, sound-proofing the room to be audible to only himself, and encouraging the humans to look the other way. The last thing Aziraphale needed was for his friends at the Portland Club to hear him being yelled at like a naughty school boy. He would not only be very embarrassed, but worse, should his friends attempt to intervene on his behalf, the Archangel would not hesitate to wipe out all of their memories of the incident, to include their memories of Aziraphale.

“DANCING?!” Gabriel bellowed. “What were you _thinking_?!" 

"I just - -

"You _weren't_ thinking, were you? That's the _problem_ with you, Aziraphale - - you never _think_!”

“I - -“ Aziraphale looked from one angel to the other helplessly. They were doing that thing again, circling around him like sharks in a pool. It was very hard to keep track of them when they did that. He tried to keep his eyes on both of them at the same time, but it only made him dizzy, which made him feel powerless, and ill.

“And what was that we heard about a recording?" Sandalphon threw his stone for the kill. “Are you t _rying_ to get yourself outed as an ethereal being? Don't you think the mortals will notice when they see this recording, years from now, and come to realize you don't age?”

Aziraphale swallowed. Oh, he knew the recording had been a foolish idea, but Crowley had insisted - - and of course the Gentlemen of the club would beg to have a copy, and he didn't want to refuse - - but the other angels were right! It was such a terrible risk. He couldn’t think of the recording now, he realized, because thinking of the recording made him think of Crowley, and all he could do was hope worriedly that the demon was alright, and hopefully somewhere far away from here. Aziraphale swallowed, his throat constricting painfully. He couldn’t think at all with the Archangel yelling at him. 

On the other side of the door, Crowley bit his lip. He listened to Gabriel and Sandalphon rip apart Aziraphale piece by piece, and each one of the poor Principality's stuttering, interrupted responses tore at his heart. He would never show that recording to anyone, he swore, and he hoped the angel would believe him when he said as much, but then - -

“I’ll destroy it,” Aziraphale blurted out, promising and yet not sure if he really would. It would break his heart, and Crowley’s, but then again, if they absolutely had to...

Gabriel punched him hard on the shoulder - - too hard to be considered anything friendly. “You bet you will!” His face was red and his hair was a mess, and he ran a hand over his face to collect himself, before sighing a very put-upon sigh. “Enough of this. We’ll let you off with a warning this time, Aziraphale, but if I hear anything more about this ‘dancing’ business you _will_ be reprimanded, and I won’t limit your penalty to a month of miracle restrictions or a cut to your celestial wages - - it will be a refresher course on proper earth conduct for you!”

Aziraphale nodded, struck dumb by the sudden leniency as much as the veiled threats - - those courses took months to complete. “Yes, sir,” he mumbled.

“Besides, we only came down here because you failed to send in your report for this quarter. So, where is it?”

Aziraphale froze. The awkward silence filling the void of his answer became palpable, and Crowley prayed, by all that was evil, that the angel’s answer would not be what he feared - - 

“I - - I didn’t write it,” Aziraphale stuttered, horror and real fear flooding his face. He had spent all that time practicing, he explained - - he had simply forgotten! Even Crowley cringed at his confession. He could feel the celestial power in the room rising in accordance with the Archangel’s fury. Suddenly the few humans still milling about blatantly decided to leave, although they could not understand why. 

“Is _this_ the behavior of the angel we tried to promote in 1800?!” Gabriel bellowed.

“Disgraceful!” Sandalphon hissed.

“It’s only been 100 years, Aziraphale - - I can’t believe you have fallen so far!”

“I haven’t Fallen! Please, give me some time - - I didn’t mean to forget!”

But Gabriel was not to be deterred. This dressing down was much worse than the one before. It was as if Gabriel had kept a list throughout the centuries: every single discrepancy and mis-step of the angel's was laid bare at his feet. Crowley huddled outside the door, his hands clenched into fists tight enough to draw blood, not even caring that his fingernails were elongating and digging into his palms. His stomach boiled with acidic bile, but he knew that if he went in there, all demonic rage and fury, well… then they would _both_ be damned.

Then the threats came after the yelling, whispered promises of what happened to “slacker angels” (a term provided gleefully by Sandalphon in a moment of Gabriel’s vocabulary lapse).

“If you continue down this path of self-indulgence, you will Fall, Aziraphale! Do you want to Fall?”

“N-no, please! I’m sorry! It won’t happen again!” Aziraphale’s shuddering, heaving breath was enough to finally end Gabriel’s litany of verbal abuse.

“No more dancing, Aziraphale,” the Archangel said. “ _That’s_ _an_ _order_!” He motioned to Sandalphon. Together they stood near the door and snapped their fingers, miracling themselves away. The resounding echo of their displaced physical bodies made Crowley’s ears pop, and the tingle of their celestial energies in the ether made his skin crawl. Sandalphon and Gabriel’s miracles always felt angry and malicious, not at all like Aziraphale’s soft, gentle ones. Crowley figured they had probably miracled themselves away to Heaven - - it was not like there was anywhere else they would go - - but he still remained silent, not moving, not even daring to breathe lest they should suddenly decide to come back.

He only moved when he knew that Aziraphale was well and truly alone in the other room, when he felt the twinge of the Archangel’s miracle fade, and the door suddenly unlocked. Crowley could feel nothing besides Aziraphale’s presence on the other side of the door. He turned the nob slowly, and the door creaked open as he took a tentative step inside.

“Angel…?”

Aziraphale stood in the center of the room, his back to the door. Crowley approached him slowly. The angel remained still and silent.

“Angel,” Crowley tried again, reaching out to touch his shoulder. “Are you all ri—

There was a sob, and in one fluid moment the angel turned and threw himself against the demon’s chest. 

“Oh, Crowley! I was so happy until just a moment ago!” Aziraphale gripped Crowley’s lapels and buried his face into his chest, his legs unable to hold him up anymore, and he collapsed to his knees. He shuddered and sobbed on the floor, and Crowley knelt down and just held him.

There was nothing else he could do. 

* * *

Hours later, it was very dark in the Gentlemen’s Club indeed, and Crowley finally pulled Aziraphale up off the floor, insisting they leave. He carried his trusty Aeroscope over his shoulder as they walked home the old fashioned way, side by side, slowly making their way down the cobbled streets of London. The entire way back to the bookshop, Crowley was silent, and Aziraphale was too. The angel hadn’t said a word since his emotional outburst before, and the demon didn’t want to press him any further on the matter. Suddenly, all too soon, they were standing in front of the bookshop, and Aziraphale’s hand was on the doorknob when he froze, and half-turned to look at Crowley.

“I’m afraid I… made a terrible mess of things.” He suddenly looked old, and tired, as he plucked the note informing his customers of his dance recital off the window. “Quite silly of me, learning how to dance,” he said, absently ripping the paper in half. “Everyone knows that ‘proper angels’ don’t dance.”

There was something about the way he said ‘proper angels,’ a flickering look in his eyes like a fire about to go out, something precious that was dangerously close to extinction. In the face of that dying light in the angel's eyes, Crowley felt his heart pull, and before he knew it his mouth was opening.

“You know,” he started, then cleared his throat. Tried again. “Every time Hastur and Ligur pop into my flat, they, er, tell me to get rid of my plants.” Aziraphale looked at him. “It’s not… ‘demonic’… you see… breathing new life into the world… making a garden of one's own.” Crowley shrugged and sniffed, shuffling his feet, attempting for nonchalant but not quite getting there. Aziraphale could see the look of vulnerability beyond his sunglasses. ”Every time they come over, they tell me to kill my plants.” 

"But… your plants are beautiful. And you would never - -“ Aziraphale stopped, chewed his bottom lip. His own blue eyes were still shiny with tears, and Crowley longed to wipe every single one of them away. “Why are you telling me this?” he asked quietly.

“Those plants are mine," Crowley growled. "They’re a part of me, and Hell doesn't have _that_ much control over what I say and do - - not yet.” _Hopefully_ _not ever_ , Crowley thought, but he didn’t dare say the thought out loud; it felt too much like tempting fate. But that wasn’t a topic for now. Now, he had to do something about that terrible look in Aziraphale’s eyes, the haunted look that made Crowley long to draw Azirapahle into his arms and kiss every trouble and care away. Instead, he leaned forward, pressing his palm against the bookshop door, effectively blocking the angel from entering. He needed him to understand…

“You don’t have to do _everything_ they say, Angel. You can find a loophole. You’re good at that. I tell Hell I keep my plants because I'm trying to raise a plant army that would terrorize the humans - - 

Aziraphale laughed, an honest-to-goodness giggling laugh. Finally. "Your venus flytrap wouldn’t even hurt a fly - - I've seen you feed it tofu, for Goodness’ sake!"

“Let me finish,” Crowley took a deep breath, then rubbed the back of his head, his spiky hair no match for the fluffy, soft curls of the angel’s. How he longed to feel those short, silky strands threading through his fingers, but he couldn’t think of that now, wouldn't think of that now. “My point is, you can turn it around. Tell them you’re doing something incredibly noble with your dancing. Tell them it’s a way to bring light and love to the world - - they can’t possibly say no to that. You can even blame it on me, say you’re thwarting my temptations by inspiring humans to dance with you in the light, rather than with me in the dark."

Aziraphale sniffled. "I suppose that could work…” He didn't move out from Crowley’s protective stance. Instead, he leaned in a little closer. 

Crowley’s heart couldn’t take it. He wanted to embrace the angel, but instead, he kept his hands to himself. "Don't let them stop your dancing, Angel. You keep on doing it. Because it really does bring light to the world." _To my world,_ he wanted to say, but he swallowed the words. 

Aziraphale looked up at Crowley like he had said the words, anyway. Crowley didn't know what to do with a look like that. 

"Thank you," Aziraphale whispered. He rose up on his tiptoes, and with a soft, quiet whisper of repeated thanks, kissed the side of Crowley’s cheek. It was a sweet, innocent kiss. Crowley may have made a noise he would never own up to, but he otherwise remained motionless, though his heart was beating a mile a minute. 

“Sssure thing, angel,” he stuttered softly, his sibilant tongue running away from him. “Anytime." He turned around to leave, but Aziraphale didn't let go of his coat. In fact, the angel looked like he didn't want to go anywhere just yet. He stared at Crowley with an unfathomable expression on his face, all quivering lips and searching eyes.

“Would you like to come in?” Aziraphale finally breathed. “I’m rather tired from all the dancing, but I do feel like I owe you a drink… for protecting my friends.” His eyes fluttered closed, and his hand starting to tremble. “You kept them from hearing all of that back at the club, didn’t you?”

Crowley did not want to think of that moment again. He gently pulled Aziraphale’s hand off his coat. Brought it to his lips. “Maybe some other time, angel,” he whispered, then let it go. He headed down the shop steps without another word. Aziraphale was still standing there, watching him, when he turned to look back at the end of the street. They watched each other for a long time, standing on opposite ends of the road, the darkness illuminated by golden light from the gas lamps flickering in the night. Finally Crowley resumed his walking, and disappeared into the dark, his camera still over his shoulder.

* * *

~ Several centuries later, post not-the-end-of-the-world ~

Crowley had promised that he would never show anyone the film and he didn’t, but he definitely did not destroy it. In fact, the film had been kept safe with a demonic miracle to make sure it never deteriorated, rolled up in its silver canister, and shoved to the bottom of a box in the back of his closet. After the end of the world didn’t happen, Crowley and Aziraphale moved in together to a cottage in South Downs. Arranging their newly-acquired shared living space with all their belongings, Crowley unearthed this treasure, and immediately showed it to Aziraphale.

"Goodness," Aziraphale murmured, brushing the dust off the silver tin. "I haven’t thought of this in ages." He looked up at Crowley. “Do you think we could still get it to work?"

“Oh, it'll work for us, angel. Let’s pop some popcorn and have a movie night." 

Then Aziraphale and Crowley watched their old home movies, memories that Crowley had preserved on film, special moments recorded forever, relived on the sheet they had tacked to the wall. There were short recordings of Crowley's first car, exploratory venues at night clubs and even an old mausoleum, various scenes of an angel and demon waving at and recording each other throughout the ages. And then, of course, there was the dance recital of the Gavotte, and nothing in that moment could have made them happier. 

Unless…

"Would you teach me how to dance the Gavotte, angel?” Crowley asked. “I know it's probably more fun in a group, but perhaps, just one on one... "

“I would like nothing better, my dear,” Aziraphale smiled. And Aziraphale did. They danced the Gavotte together, just for fun at first, until their dancing became slow and sensuous, an altogether different sort of dance. 

And then they fell into bed together. 

And Aziraphale was happy. 

And so was Crowley. 

-The End. 

**More notes:

Interestingly enough, the Wikipedia article on the Aeroscope claims this camera was nicknamed “The Camera of Death” due to its heavy usage during WW1 — presumably because so many cameramen were killed on the battlefields while they were filming with it: <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aeroscope>

Since this camera was also the most simple and reliable camera of the early 1900s, I have no doubt that Crowley would have used it had cinematography been a hobby of his (which, given his liking for technology, sounds rather likely), even despite the unfortunate origin of its nickname, which I don’t think he would have liked at all.

***A mighty thank you to i_am_therefore_i_fight for her beta-reading.***


End file.
